


Kings

by sidnihoudini



Series: House of Gold [2]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Italian Mafia, M/M, Wife Chris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4310295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidnihoudini/pseuds/sidnihoudini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe had a bad habit of showing up unexpectedly, usually with some kind of request or bomb to drop.  Zach took to calling him a black dog for a short while, the bad omen before death and disparagement.  It had kind of been a joke, but also kind of not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kings

Chris is running.

In California, they live in Calabasas; a gated community full of the stinking rich and famous. 

Chris had initially been convinced that the whole area was nothing more than a ponzi scheme, though Zach eventually managed to change his mind. Ultimately, like all of the things Zach sunk their money into, The Oaks was a community that rolled out the red carpet whenever they happened to be in town.

Thing is, Chris wouldn’t consider their Calabasas house home, really. They _were_ the Kings of Coney Island, after all, which made New York their home turf on a technicality, even though Chris had grown up only a few hours away from their Calabasas home. Truthfully he would never turn his nose up at the chance to be in a city with constantly sunny skies and a warm, dry climate.

His running shoes hit the dirt trail as the song changes, and for a split second, he can hear the moment of impact of his sole against the concrete ground. It’s a thump, deep and rhythmic, and it leads him into the next track on his playlist.

It’s early, still, morning skies bright but ultimately empty. It gives the surrounding trees a strange, ethereal glow.

This morning, he is nervous, and trying desperately to run away from the pit of anxiety lingering in his stomach. 

Thomas wouldn’t let him leave the house this morning without a concealed fixed blade Schrade tucked into the back of his pants, and Chris knows that it’s because Zach has been gone on a job all week. Zach never gives him the specifics, just in case it all comes crashing down, but Chris had caught him tucking a passport into his overnight bag on Monday, and he’s been a ghost since.

When Zach came and went like the tide, it meant the job was big. Zach didn’t skip the country for anything less than thirty million, and even that was being charitable - he didn’t even wake up for anything less than fifteen.

Chris knew a bit of family history from what Zach has told him over the years. The old boys, they used to get by on money laundering and insurance scams. He knows that the second most lucrative family in NY lines their pockets well, and have enough Italian bakeries to clean at least a hundred thou a piece annually. But that was nothing compared to the game Zach’s family has been running since the thirties.

They are old blood in the truest sense of the word.

Sweat begins to drip down Chris’ face as he breaks through the other end of the trail, and moves out onto the sidewalk. A black SUV with illegally tinted windows rolls down the street beside him, its headlights low and yellow in the dim early morning Californian twilight. Chris feels that familiar swoop in his stomach. For better or worse, he is just as important as anyone else in the family - Zach’s most valued asset.

The car rolls past. Just another wealthy businessman on his way into the office before his family wakes up, then.

In 2010, Pablo Picasso’s 1911 masterpiece titled “ _Le pigeon aux petits pois_ ” was one of five paintings stolen from the Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris. Chris knows, because he read about the theft in the New York Times a week later.

Apparently there was only a single smashed window and a broken padlock at the scene of the crime. The cops reviewed the security footage multiple times, and, weeks later, managed to release a stock description of the person in the video. It had been a one person job, a man of unknown race, dressed from head to toe in black. Without the help of a team, he’d removed the paintings from their frames in record speed. The article said he hadn’t even needed a blade to cut the canvases out.

Chris has an encyclopedic knowledge of Zach. It starts with the hairs at the very top of his head, and it goes all the way down to the soles on the bottoms of his feet. Nothing is exempt. That meant that when Zach returned from an overnight trip that same month in 2010, Chris had immediately indexed the small cut on the inside of Zach’s hand. Like he had accidentally stuck himself with a small, precise screwdriver.

He’d never mentioned it to anyone, and had thrown his copy of The Times away that afternoon.

This morning, his pace slows a bit despite himself. He’s been feeling drained this whole week, tired and unable to sleep much at night despite running himself thin during the day. Exhaling hard, he drops his pace into a light jog, and shakes his head to one side, letting an ear bud drop out of his ear.

That’s when he hears the car idling a few paces behind him.

Licking his lips, Chris tries to surreptitiously glance over one shoulder. Sure enough, not even a half a block down the street, their matte black Challenger is rolling slowly along behind Chris, keeping his pace. As Chris grimaces and turns his head back, he hears the car accelerate and pull up beside him.

The window closest to Chris rolls down.

“How long have you been trailing me for?” Chris asks, dropping into a walk. His tone is flat, and the ear bud resting on his shoulder is still blasting tinny, baseless electronica.

Thomas’ head appears in the window as he leans across the passenger seat. He raises one eyebrow and answers, “Since you disappeared into the woods. Hiking trails aren’t a good choice, man.”

“We’re surrounded by celebrities, not terrorists,” Chris snaps back, and refrains from rolling his eyes. Instead, he brings one hand up to wipe the sweat off his mouth. Once you got used to the New York climate at this time of year, California might as well be a far away jungle.

Shrugging, Thomas slows down to match Chris’ walking pace. Which is, admittedly, now even slower than usual.

“You know I don’t make the rules,” Thomas adds easily. He practically sounds jovial about it. Chris knows this; it’s a conversation the two of them have had multiple times, in multiple settings, for multiple reasons - and still, Chris doesn’t give a shit. “Anyway, there’s been a change of plans. Get in.”

The car stops on a dime, and the passenger side door swings open. Chris frowns and glances one way down the street, and then the other. It’s empty, and he doesn’t know what else he expects to see, just empty manicured lawn after empty manicured lawn, all bright green and perfectly maintained. There are luscious, blooming Hawaiian flowers and palm trees as far as the eye can see.

“One day a cop is gonna see this shit, and I’m going to get arrested for sex solicitation,” Chris grumbles, turning to climb into the car.

His sweaty body immediately sticks to the leather seats, which Thomas seems to anticipate as he simultaneously reaches forward to angle the air vents towards Chris’ face.

Thomas half smiles over at him, and pulls away from the curb as Chris pulls his seatbelt on. 

He replies, “Well, that shouldn’t be a problem. You are the one with the clean record.”

“Funny,” Chris intones, chewing on his bottom lip as he settles back in the seat and looks over at Thomas. He pauses to study his profile. It’s not immediately obvious, but Chris can see a fresh welt beginning to bloom on the cheekbone beneath his right eye. A moment later, he frowns when he glances down and notices Thomas’ Beretta in plain view. “What’s going on?”

The beginnings of a frown flicker across Thomas’ face for a split second, before he shakes his head and then glances over in Chris’ direction, eyes looking particularly bright and green and alert. The reaction immediately makes Chris nervous; even more so when they pass right by their property, and continue on towards the main gates.

“Zach is waiting in Manhattan,” Thomas says, sounding purposely vague.

Chris frowns, and turns to look out the narrow passenger side window as the remainder of their gated community flies by. As soon as they’re outside the security gates Thomas picks up speed quickly, flying through the web of winding residential streets that will connect them to the highway.

He doesn’t bother asking for more information. Chris knows he won’t get anything else until he can talk to Zach directly.

~

Zach taught him how to use a gun when they’d first started dating, but Chris has never had to use one before.

He doesn’t exactly know the legality of it all - Chris figures it’s likely on this side of “il” than not - but he carries a SIG-Sauer when he travels alone. It’s only precautionary, especially with Thomas casting a shadow on him at all times of the day. Mostly Chris just does it because Zach asks him to. If it really came down to it, Chris doesn’t know what he would do if he had to pull the trigger.

Thomas drives them to the airport, where they take a chartered flight from LAX to Newark. It takes four hours from lift off to touchdown, though it seems like longer because Chris is practically biting his tongue to keep from asking questions. For the entire flight Thomas sits beside him, head down, studiously watching something on the small screen of his iPhone.

Sometimes Chris forgets that Thomas is a real person, and watches all of the same shitty TV sitcoms that Chris does.

A car meets them at the loading curb outside Newark, windows blacked out. They’ve also lost three hours due to time zones. Thomas holds the back door open for Chris, and then climbs into the front by himself, fist bumping the driver over the center console as he does so. As they pull away from the curb, Chris watches as the front partition begins to slide up, effectively leaving Chris to sit and stare by himself out the window.

Even though they’re already en route to their final destination, Chris pulls out his phone to text Zach anyways.

He types _xxxo_ and hits send, knowing that he can’t say what he wants to.

New York, one of his home sweet homes, rolls by outside. It’s hard to believe he woke up in his bed in a different state just a few hours ago.

~

They arrive at the brownstone an hour later.

Chris can’t shake the strange state of mind he’s in when they arrive. He’s been taking Ambien to sleep the last couple of nights, even though Zach despises it because it knocks Chris a few stages past “comatose.” If someone were to bomb the front door of their house down, Chris would probably roll over and fall back asleep among the falling debris.

But fuck what Zach thought about it, Chris had decided, before going to the doctor for a new prescription. He’d also asked for refills on his valium and xanax, both of which the doctor had been happy to provide.

It’s dinnertime when they get home, and Thomas leads him through the front hall into the kitchen, where Chris is surprised to see Joe Quinto standing at their kitchen island.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Thomas asks, as Chris comes to an abrupt stop beside his elbow.

Joe looks the same as he always has, even though Chris hasn’t seen him in months.

His dark hair is tucked messily beneath a Red Sox cap, blue eyes bright and skin freshly tanned. He’s wearing a leather jacket and blue jeans that are neither fitted nor the right wash for anything post 2001. The whole thing adds up to Zach’s brother in a nutshell, the black sheep of this particular branch of their Gucci wearing, Prada loving family.

“I’m here to see my little brother, what the fuck do you think?” Joe asks, looking sour as he shrugs one shoulder. If they’re locking shit down, Chris assumes Joe throws a wrench in the original plan. 

Oblivious, Joe digs into the jar of nuts he’s holding, and tips his head back to navigate the handful into his mouth.

Thomas looks wildly unimpressed for a split second, but visibly bites his tongue as he frowns and throws the morning’s mail onto the counter. The envelopes slap down beside Joe’s car keys and flip phone.

“Well,” Chris says, trying to mend the silence. “It’s a nice surprise.”

A grin spreads from one side of Joe’s face to the other; he’s the funhouse version of Zach, wild and sharp like a Cheshire cat.

“Lovely to see you too, as always, darling,” He replies overly warmly as Chris moves past Thomas, and heads towards the sink. Chris needs a real cup of coffee, stat. From behind him, Joe waits a beat before asking, “So… Zach around?”

Chris shakes his head, mostly listening to Thomas moving around behind him. He’s ripping open envelopes and throwing junk mail into the recycling bin underneath the kitchen island.

If this were any other family, Chris would probably answer Joe’s innocent question by saying something like, “He’s around here somewhere,” or, “He better be, I just flew across the country to see him,” but it’s not. And it’s not just anyone that Joe is asking about, it’s Zach - and Chris will protect Zach at all costs, no matter who he’s answering to.

“I’m not sure,” Chris settles on saying, as he shrugs and reaches for the empty coffee pot. As he turns the tap on, he glances over his shoulder and asks, “Was he expecting you?”

Joe tries to bite down on his smile, but he ends up grinning again, anyways.

“Nope,” He says, which isn’t exactly a surprise. Joe had a bad habit of showing up unexpectedly, usually with some kind of request or bomb to drop. Zach took to calling him a black dog for a short while, the bad omen before death and disparagement. It had kind of been a joke, but also kind of not. “I’m actually in town to talk to Augustine.”

Chris frowns down at the coffee pot as he watches it fill with water. That doesn’t sound right. Without turning back around, he asks, “And does Zach know that?”

When Joe doesn’t immediately answer, Chris does glance back over his shoulder. Joe catches him looking and smiles again, before he shrugs.

“Joe. Be careful,” Chris warns, just as the french doors open and Dave walks in.

The kid has recently taken to smoking, which Chris feels neither good nor bad about. Everyone in this life had a vice, and Chris was just happy to hear Dave’s wasn’t killing prostitutes or hard drugs. Watching Dave’s insistence on smoking from afar has given Chris flashbacks to his teenaged years, an era that included hiding underneath the school bleachers, secret stashes of BIC lighters, and fake IDs by the dozen. That was the kind of shit that got him sent off to Switzerland when he was sixteen.

Dave, on the other hand, nods a ‘hello’ in Joe’s direction, and walks over to the kitchen table smelling like smoke. There’s a glossy car magazine open on the kitchen table in the spot he must have been sitting in before, and an empty gas station sandwich wrapper beside it.

A luxurious life, Chris thinks to himself, smiling. He spoons coffee grounds into the coffee maker, and switches it on.

“Sooo, you saw Augustine over Christmas, right?” Joe asks, hedging for information as he pushes himself up onto the kitchen island.

When Chris turns around, Joe is sitting on the counter with his heels against the bottom cupboards, and his hands folded in his lap. He practically looks like a child, especially with that curious expression openly growing across his face.

“We see the Luccheses every holiday,” Chris non-answers, crossing his arms and leaning one hip against the counter.

Until he knows what Joe is angling for, he is not dropping a dime.

“Yeah? His eldest still a fox?” Joe asks, waggling his eyebrows.

That makes Chris laugh, but he forces it down, swallowing teeth as he warns, “Careful. That will get you a black eye, man.”

“Hey, hey, hey, I’m an officer of the peace,” Joe teases, holding both hands up innocently. “I’m just the weed guy!”

The smell of fresh coffee brewing must have roused Zach from wherever he was hiding. He comes into the kitchen wearing a pair of dress pants with suspenders hanging off of his hips, and a white wife beater tucked into the waistband of his pants. He looks absolutely exhausted, eyes deep and dark, five o’clock shadow in full effect.

“Hey baby brother,” Joe greets cheerfully, grinning widely as he swings his legs back and forth. His heels bang off of the kitchen cupboards loudly.

Zach grimaces when he first notices everyone standing there, but then he zeroes in on Joe. He snaps, “Get your fucking feet off of my furniture. Why are you here?”

“He’s the weed guy!” Dave booms from the kitchen table, putting on a Robert De Niro voice. Chris offers the kid a half smile for his attempt at breaking the ice, but Zach freezes that out with one glare in Dave’s general direction.

Joe and Zach, they’ve always had a strange relationship. It isn’t built on sour mouths or rotting roots, but the dynamic is weird - how many people had a younger brother that was a mafia kingpin? In high school Joe had been a stoner, a real gutter rat, which had been how they had both ended up tangled in the wrong crowd. Zach had taken advantage of every opportunity he was thrown, and had climbed the ladder quickly. Joe, on the other hand, had not.

And now, as Zach describes it, one of them runs a bank of commerce while the other runs a dog and pony show. Joe posts Instagram photos of himself smoking tri-joints with Snoop, while Zach actively works to keep his name out of Google search results altogether, no matter how obscure they are.

No news is good news.

“Where’s Max?” Zach asks, sounding distracted as he moves across the room to Chris.

Chris leans back against the counter as Zach rounds in on him, unable to stop the warm smile from spreading across his face when he sees Zach’s expression momentarily soften. Zach smiles down at him and wraps both arms around Chris’ shoulders, pulling him in tight so he can press their bodies together and kiss the bridge of his nose.

Behind them Dave nods, sobered from Zach’s glare, and replies, “He’s in the backyard, on the phone with his daughter. It’s her birthday today.”

“His daughter’s birthday,” Zach echoes, pulling away from Chris’ face. He loosens his grip on Chris’ shoulders, as well, and turns to look out the kitchen window over the sink. Sure enough Max is out there by himself, standing on their small backyard patio with one finger plugged in an ear, and a massive proud dad smile on his face.

Max does this for his daughters, Chris knows this.

“She’s four,” He supplies, resting his palm against Zach’s cheek thoughtfully. Zach looks back down at him, eyes hooded, and watches Chris’ mouth as Chris adds, “I sent her a card and a gift.”

That seems to placate Zach for whatever reason. He nods, presses another kiss, this time to Chris’ mouth, and then lets go of him altogether, turning his attention away from the window and to Joe instead.

“So why are you here?” He asks again, raising one eyebrow. Thomas sits down on a stool on the other side of the counter, and scoffs.

Joe looks offended for about half a second as he frowns in Thomas’ direction. Thomas smiles serenely in return.

“Sometimes I come when I don’t want something,” He defends himself, widening his eyes. “Not all the time, but sometimes.”

At that Zach arches a skeptical eyebrow, and walks over to the kitchen table. One of Zach’s holsters is slung over the arm of the empty chair beside Dave; Zach picks it up easily and slides it on like anyone else would tie a tie, or button their dress shirt.

“Alright,” Zach replies, adjusting the holster as he glances over at his brother. Underneath the curtain already beginning to drape across his face, he still looks wildly unconvinced. “And what category does this particular visit fall under?”

Joe pushes himself off of the island, successfully startling Chris mid coffee pour, and turns around so he and Zach are face to face again.

He presses both palms against the granite of the kitchen island top, and grins, “I need something.”

“Ahh,” Zach sighs, reaching for his gun tiredly. It’s freshly cleaned and sitting on a cloth thanks to Dave. Zach flips it around and checks the barrel before he slides it down into his holster and asks Joe, “And what is that, exactly?”

To his credit, Joe does hesitate for about a half a second before he admits, “I want to meet with Augustine.”

“Not going to happen,” Zach says definitively, sending a sharp smile over to Joe before he takes a seat at the kitchen table.

Chris takes two coffees over, one for Zach and one for Dave, and sets them carefully on the table. 

This table is huge, built out of African black wood and iron, practically medieval in its appearance. Chris found it on a trip through New Orleans two years ago, in fact it had been the catalyst to the Southern gothic phase Chris had gone through shortly after. Zach loved it because it gave them a particularly solid place to fuck against.

Joe, on the other hand, does not like Zach’s answer. His expression turns sour as he replies, “You’re not his secretary, Zach.”

“And _you’re_ not John fucking Gotti,” Zach says happily, voice heavy with sarcasm as he reaches for Dave’s pack of cigarettes, and taps one out onto the table. They smoke the same brand. “You want to have words with Augustine, you go through me first.”

Now thoroughly pissed off, Joe’s feathers are visibly ruffled as he replies, “I’m your brother.”

Chris is back in front of the coffee maker, pouring another three mugs of coffee. He hands one off to Joe before he saves one for himself, and leaves a third for Max. Zach is now leaning back in his chair and puffing out smoke like it’s his job.

“Well, that’s business, isn’t it?” Zach announces, reaching for his copy of The New York Times. He exhales smoke with the cigarette still hanging from his bottom lip, and flips the newspaper open one handed. When Joe doesn’t immediately reply, Zach looks up at Joe from beneath his brow bone, and adds, “You want to go to Rino’s for some food, we’ll get you a tray of baked penne. We’ll have a nice conversation.”

Thomas and Dave both look like they practically want to melt into the floor when Joe bangs his hands on the counter and snaps, “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“You’re my brother,” Zach says simply, patience clearly beginning to wear thin. “And you don’t fuck with my business.”

At that Joe comes around the kitchen island, now hot in the tooth as he argues, “Yeah? Well now you’re fucking with _my_ business. I don’t want your shitty fucking penne, I want to make a proposition.”

“You wanted the dispensary in South Carolina, we got you the dispensary in South California,” Zach replies, beginning to raise the volume of his voice as he steamrolls Joe’s complaint. “You wanted the tanning salons in Jersey, we got you the tanning salons in Jersey.”

Joe inhales sharply through his teeth, and explains, voice pitchy, “And now I want to expand. _In different markets._ ”

“Dave get the fuck out,” Zach orders suddenly, not taking his eyes off the front page of his newspaper.

At the abrupt request Dave’s mouth drops open, jaw practically hitting the table top as he knots his eyebrows and blurts, “What?!”

“Get the FUCK out,” Zach shouts, throwing his newspaper down against the table. Chris jumps, startled, and watches as Dave bolts from his seat, standing up so quickly that he accidentally bangs into the edge of the table.

Without having to be asked, Thomas stands up and follows Dave out of the kitchen quietly, letting the living room door swing closed behind them.

At the sink, Chris stirs sugar into his black coffee, and watches Max talk to his daughter through the window.

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you, huh?!” Zach asks, not moving an inch. He looks volatile and dangerous, voice loud but controlled. Four qualities that made Zach absolutely terrifying. “You want me to buy you a gravestone and bury you before your own mother?”

Ultimately, though, Joe still considers Zach his kid brother. And a younger sibling had no right talking to his older brother like that, outright denying Joe the chance to talk to the don. 

Zach’s response pisses Joe right the fuck off, that infamous Quinto temper crackling like a firework as he shouts back, “I got families to support, man! I need to expand - I can’t hustle weed at the quantities I used to!”

“And how the fuck is that my problem?” Zach admonishes.

Joe’s still hot under the collar, though. Zach doesn’t get an answer to his question, Joe just continues ranting, “Fucking Colorado legalized it. That’s one entire state gone already. Give it five years, Zach, my business is going to be in the red.”

“So explain to me how Augustine is going to change that?” Zach asks.

For the first time this evening, Joe actually falters. Chris watches him stumble silently, the bottom of his stomach dropping out when Joe finally pulls himself together and answers, “I want cocaine. I have contacts in Peru already. After that, maybe dope. Maybe crystal.”

“You _are_ a fucking idiot,” Zach snaps.

Ignoring him, Joe plunders on, and adds, “I already have someone in the DEA. I have a plan, Zach, I just need an investment. And I need the burroughs.”

“You don’t want to fuck with the feds, Joe,” Zach warns, lowering his voice. “New York is crawling with them. This isn’t LA.”

At that, Joe shrugs. For a second Chris sees the situation for what it really is: a businessman left at the end of his rope, with only one direction to fall. Down. And if Joe falls, he will fall hard.

“So, will you set me up with Augustine?” Joe asks, his voice soft, finally unsure. “Please, Zach.”

Zach finally groans at nobody in particular, and presses both hands against his face. Chris can see the turmoil behind his expression, the good vs. evil war that Zach waged with himself every single day. Where do you draw the line? After a moment, though, Zach pulls himself together and shakes it off.

He announces, “We’ll have dinner tomorrow. Chris.”

“Yeah,” Chris echoes, voice faint. He sets his coffee mug back down against the counter top.

Zach leans forward to butt his cigarette out, and reaches for the pack again as he says, “Get a spread for tomorrow night.”

“Rino’s?” Chris asks, knowing Augustine could be particular about his Italian food. Zach nods.

Well, Chris thinks, reaching for his phone. That’s settled then. He glances over at Joe, and catches him exhaling, like a weight has been physically removed from his shoulders. He bows his head towards the counter top as Chris looks for Rino’s number.

As Chris dials, he moves towards Zach, coasting his fingers through Zach’s hair as it rings through to Rino’s voicemail.

Zach goes back to reading his newspaper, and, with an unbroken record for having the worst timing ever, Max pops the back door open, and walks into the kitchen blindly.

“Oh,” He blurts to nobody in particular, and, after briefly looking around the room, hurries through the doorway after Thomas and Dave.

To his credit, Zach manages to hide his smirk behind the newspaper.

~

They share a shower that night, naked and golden against the dark terracotta tiles in their wet room.

“I missed you,” Zach murmurs, voice soft as he works his hands over Chris’ shoulders. Soap bubbles over the tanned skin and slides down, lower, lower, lower. Zach presses his mouth to the nape of Chris’ neck, and then bites a little, enjoying the way that Chris pushes back against him.

Making a soft noise of agreement, Chris steps back underneath the spray. The warm water rinses the remaining soap off of his chest, and by association, the lingering anxiety from the day’s events. What a wild fucking day, he thinks to himself, before he spits an accidental mouthful of shower water against the floor tile.

“You scared me today,” Chris admits, pressing the steam button with the pad of his thumb before he turns around, so he and Zach are properly face to face. Zach’s hair is as dark as ever and slicked back on his head, eyelashes dripping with shower water as he blinks and smiles down at Chris crookedly. Chris bites his bottom lip, and asks, “What’s going on?”

Zach pushes his chin out, purposely putting on a ‘casual, yet brave’ face as he says, “Nothing to be worried about.”

“Don’t say that to me,” Chris admonishes, voice soft in the dark space of their shower. Their inner sanctum, he thinks, reaching up to hold Zach’s face by the cheek. Chris angles Zach’s face towards his own, using his thumb against Zach’s chin until they’re staring into one another's faces with nowhere else to go. He raises his eyebrows, and repeats, “Please. Why did I have to leave like that this morning?”

At Chris’ purposely direct question, Zach frowns, eyebrows knotting. His gaze flickers back and forth over Chris’ face carefully, like he’ll somehow find the answer there. His eyes are soft as he studies the slope of Chris’ nose, and the familiar color of his eyes.

“The west coast isn’t safe right now,” He finally answers. Zach purposely keeps his reply vague.

Chris, on the other hand, feels his stomach turn over into a thousand tiny knots.

“The west coast?” Chris blurts, eyebrows jumping up his forehead. As though he was expecting Chris’ surprised reaction, Zach leans forward and kisses Chris’ mouth, even as Chris gently pushes him away with one hand and clarifies, “Like, the _entire_ west coast?!”

Zach’s expression begins to tighten up again. His eyes warn Chris not to push much further.

“Babe, please,” He whispers, bringing one hand up to smoothe a palm over Chris’ wet skull. “Don’t ask me again.”

At the serious look on Zach’s face, Chris lets it go. Instead he leans forward, pressing himself against the safety of Zach’s throat as Zach kisses the side of his head in return, wrapping both arms securely around his shoulders.

~

Chris used to have to work for every tidbit of information he received when he first started dating Zach.

It wasn’t that Zach was cold to him, or particularly callous. He was just careful, studious, used to never giving too much of himself away at one time to any one person.

Zach’s life had been shown to Chris piece by piece. It had been like putting a broken mirror back together with only the shape of the frame for reference. There was no quick fix, and there was no glue that existed to put the pieces perfectly back together. The only tool Chris had at his disposal was time. Slow, steady time.

The first night Chris had been invited to dine with Augustine and his wife, he’d had no idea who either of them were.

At first Chris thought maybe he was just a close family friend of Zach’s. He was obviously older, and had quickly extended that Italian warmth to Chris like he was a son or cousin. It wasn’t until Chris found out more about Zach’s job that he managed to put the puzzle pieces together. Augustine was the head of it all - big daddy, the don, Capo di tutti capi, the godfather - and for the first few month of he and Zach’s relationship, Chris had no idea.

For a short time, Augustine had just been the warm Italian man who extended red wine to those around him at any and every opportunity, and spent way too much money at the Rockaway Racetracks.

After a while Chris came to know better. Augustine and his wife, Carmela, had wanted a son since they first married - and their track record of daughters showed just how many times they’d tried unsuccessfully. Their daughters were all very well mannered and deeply Italian looking, the youngest thirteen years old, and the oldest Chris’ age. Anita, Agnese, Alessia, and Alisa. 

Once Chris began managing Zach’s holiday cards and birthday gifts, he’d had to keep a reference list of them all to keep each one straight.

To say Chris had come to know the Luccheses intimately over the span of his relationship with Zach was an understatement. In fact, they were practically family. The don loved Chris, which Chris knew for a fact, because Augustine made damn sure you knew it if you rubbed him the wrong way. And he loved Zach even more; the surrogate son he’d never been able to have. A match made in capo heaven. A gangsta’s paradise. 

Whatever you wanted to call it, Zach was at the receiving end of it, through better or worse.

~

The next morning, Chris phones Carmela about dinner.

Zach will set the actual meeting time up with Augustine, but it’s Chris’ job to make sure that everyone gets what they want, and that begins and ends with hearing about how Alisa has decided to try out vegetarianism, and that Agnese has recently tested positive for a minor gluten intolerance even though neither of them will be in attendance for tonight’s meal.

As always, Carmela absolutely chats his ear off. She’s old money and raised on societal rungs that are similar to the ones Chris grew up navigating, and nothing makes that more obvious than the way she goes on and on. She talks about the Florida Keys and boarding school, and tells Chris that he and Zach will need to go to the Alps with them next winter - for skiing and French cuisine, of course.

Chris likes her - he loves her, even - like she’s his own mother. That feeling directly extends to the way he feels about telephone conversations with either of them. He can’t get off the line fast enough, twenty minutes feels like a lifetime, and he ends up with a little post-it note that says _vegetarian? gluten?_ scrawled in black fountain ink.

After Carmela, he phones Rino’s to double check the menu. The fastest way to piss off an Italian is to serve the wrong food, so Chris has the Sous-Chef read him the night’s menu back carefully.

On his way back out of the sitting room, Chris glances down the corridor, to where Zach’s office looms at the very end of the hall.

The door is wide open even though he’s entertaining two guests. Chris can only see Zach standing in front of his desk from this angle, head bowed low, focused on a file of paper that he’s holding in his hand.

It’s enough, though. The line of Zach’s shoulders beneath that white button down shirt never fails to make a shiver run down Chris’ spine.

~

“Ciao, ciao,” Zach greets, kissing Carmela on one cheek, and then the other.

She’s wearing no less than a couture Versace evening gown, wine colored and tailored to within an inch of it’s life.

Chris stands behind Zach, a warm smile on his face as he watches Carmela fuss over him, patting her hands against his cheeks and smoothing his hair back against the top of his head. Zach takes it all with a grain of salt like he always does, and then maneuvers her around by the arm until Chris is in her crosshairs instead.

Carmela moves for him easily, grabbing one of his hands in both of hers. He leans forward to accept the cheek kiss she gives him.

When he looks up from Carmela’s greeting, Zach and Augustine are chatting, Augustine’s brows dark and drawn together as he hands a bottle of expensive looking wine over to Zach. Zach looks down at the label and says something brief to Augustine, before patting him on the shoulder and handing the bottle off to Dave. Dave accepts the bottle quickly, and takes it into the kitchen to pour.

“Chris, mio figlio, good to see you, my boy,” Augustine booms, as he gives Chris a tight hug.

Chris offers a returning smile and pats Augustine on the shoulder as they pull away.

“Come and sit,” Chris says then, gesturing towards the dressed table. “We have fantastic food coming.”

~

The plan is for Zach to wait until dinner has finished, so he can speak with Augustine privately.

After a short conversation in front of the bathroom mirror while they were getting dressed, Zach told Chris he’d decided Joe was too big of a risk to actually take part in the negotiation, and had too high of a chance at getting on Augustine’s bad side. Because of those odds, Joe had been banished to the downstairs multimedia theatre for the night, instead.

Chris can almost swear he hears Star Wars sound effects rumbling through the floor as they’re eating the last course.

Twenty minutes later, as they’re finishing their dessert plates, Augustine hits his hard limit. Looking stuffed, he groans and lets his dessert fork clatter to the bone china plate before he leans back in his chair happily.

Chris offers a private smile to Zach as he swirls his glass of red wine, elbow braced against the sharp edge of the table.

“Zaccaria, I was saying this to Chris earlier today,” Carmela starts, reaching for a wine bottle. They’ve already been through the bottle Augustine bought, and a bottle Dave brought up from the basement cellar. “You two must come up to the chalet this winter.”

Zach laughs and rubs his face with one hand as he leans back in his chair and manages to say, “Oh, we’ll see.”

“Busy season, darling,” Augustine says, checking the time on his wristwatch. Rolex, expensive. “There is always too much business to be had.”

At that Zach nods, his expression changing a fraction. 

“That _is_ the truth,” He sighs, zoning out for a moment. Chris catches Zach looking off into the distance for a hair of a second before he pulls himself together, and taps his fingers against the edge of the table. Rap, tap tap. He looks over at Augustine, eyebrow raised, and asks, “Speaking of, would you like some scotch?”

A wide grin splits Augustine’s weathered face easily.

“Of course,” He answers, his voice deep and as warm as the alcohol is.

Augustine tips the remainder of his dinner wine back quickly. As he stands up he unbuttons his shirt cuffs and rolls his sleeves up until they reach his elbows. Zach, still sitting at the table, slides a cigarette from the pack beside his dinner plate, and sticks it between his dry lips before standing up.

The revolver tucked into the back of Augustine’s suit pants doesn’t even register as Chris watches the two of them saunter off together, Zach’s hands patting over his own back pockets as he searches for his gold zippo lighter.

As the two of them disappear underneath the dining room arches, Chris offers a tight smile in Carmela’s direction, and asks, “More wine?”

~

Chris is already in bed when Zach comes in that night.

After saying goodbye to the Luccheses, Zach had immediately returned to his study alone. As Chris stood at the oven, picking cooked pasta out of the Rino’s tray and watching Dave clean the last of the dishes, he’d pretended not to hear the sound of Zach’s office bookshelves crashing to the ground.

Shortly after Zach had emerged from the study looking disheveled, hair hanging in his face, and his dress shirt pulled out of the back of his dress pants. He’d completely ignored Chris standing at the kitchen island, and had instead headed right for the stairwell leading down to the basement.

Chris stood in the empty kitchen by himself for a few moments, listening to the sound of Zach’s shoes on the wooden steps, and Dave clinking cutlery together in the other room. He’d thrown back the rest of the wine before heading upstairs alone.

Now, in fresh sheets, Chris is almost surprised to see Zach appear in their bedroom so quickly.

From his position underneath the covers, Chris sits quietly. He’s only half paying attention to his crossword puzzle. The majority of his attention is going towards surreptitiously watching Zach as he moves around their bedroom angrily, removing his jewelry and gun and glasses before he disappears into the adjoined bathroom for a beat.

By the time Zach flips the bed covers back to get into bed, Chris has entirely abandoned his crossword puzzle. He can also now clearly see how visibly agitated Zach is.

There are a few moments of heavy, stifling silence, before Zach says, voice dangerous and low, “Joe is a fucking idiot. He’s going to get himself killed.”

“Zach, you don’t know that,” Chris says, softly. He tries to weigh a bit of logic against Zach’s immediate forecast of death.

Zach violently kicks the sheets from his bare legs, and shakes his head.

“You’re right,” He replies, glancing at Chris sharply. “I don’t. But I do know my brother, and - more importantly - I know the drug rackets in this city. When you put the two of them together, you’ve got Joe, and you’ve got the Mexican fucking cartels. That only adds up one way to me.”

Chris frowns, feeling sad.

He murmurs, “Zach,” quietly, and watches as Zach rubs both hands up and down over his face, over and over.

Based on Zach’s current state of mind, Chris can only assume that Augustine has agreed to accommodate Joe’s wishes.

“It’s one fucking thing after another. No, you know what? I’ll kill every single one of them,” Zach finally says after a second, his voice lilted and strange. He sounds like he’s reasoning with himself. He stops rubbing his face abruptly, and runs a hand through his product heavy hair instead. With the past five o’clock shadow and rumpled hair, he looks crazy. Chris reaches up, and tries to flatten his hair as he continues, “If they touch Joe, that’s it. They’re out of New York.”

Chris frowns at that. As much as Zach doesn’t want Joe to get involved with a heavy operation like the Mexican drug cartels, Chris doesn’t want Zach to position himself to take down an entire drug faction. Sure, even though Zach would likely make it out, the numbers couldn’t possibly be stacked in his favor.

“Fuck it,” Zach finally announces, shaking his head. “I can’t fucking think about this anymore.”

Nodding, Chris lets his palm drop down to the curve of Zach’s shoulder. Zach looks over at him briefly, their eyes meeting, before he turns back to turn his bedside lamp off.

Chris sits in the dim of his own murky lamp light as Zach gets comfortable, the forgotten crossword still folded over his lap.

Zach is right. Joe getting involved with the cartels could change absolutely everything.


End file.
